


The Adventure Of Bernicia Cottage (1894)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [134]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assassination, Destiel - Freeform, Fake Character Death, France (Country), Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Naked Sherlock, Northumberland, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:39:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11298417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: John returns to his native Northumberland, whilst Sherlock solves a murder that was all but witnessed – and then promptly abandons his friend!





	The Adventure Of Bernicia Cottage (1894)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as ‘the matter of Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris police’.

I gave some serious thought before choosing to include this case amongst the one hundred and fifty stories in this final, expanded 'Sherlock canon'. Two things decided me in favour at the last; a request from Mrs. Thomasina Smith, the grand-daughter of the now late Doctor Thaddeus Winchelsey, and the fact that this story took place not only in my native Northumberland but just a few miles from my home village of Belford, to which I had not returned since leaving it for London some (ahem!) years ago.

If anyone across the room from me sniggers at my passing over that number, I.... well, I shall not be happy!

+~+~+

Over the years, my contacts with the people that I had known in my home county had dwindled to just two; the aforementioned Doctor Winchesley, who had retired a few years back and had moved to a cottage in the fishing port of Seahouses not far from Belford, and the Reverend Henry Potter, who had been exceedingly helpful after my father’s death (especially considering that he had taken over his post not two weeks prior to that event), and for his sins was still vicar of Belford at the time of this story. There had been some scandal about ten years back when he had married a lady nearly a decade younger than himself, but fortunately the reverend’s new wife had quickly won over the locals, and all was soon well.

I had been thinking of Doctor Winchelsey only the other day, that warm June morning, because I had read in the paper that work had started on connecting his village and neighbouring North Sunderland to the railway network. He had not mentioned it in his last letter a few months earlier, although since the line had been authorized for two years before work had actually started, I suppose that it was hardly news any more. And as if proof that thinking of someone makes them come into your life in some way were needed, a further letter had arrived that morning, with some rather startling news.

I had read the letter twice, then locked it away in my draw. I did not want Sherlock to know about it, as he had only just come off a case for the government which, regrettably, had meant prolonged meetings with his tiresome brother Bacchus (thankfully all away from Baker Street, where the lounge-lizard was still not welcome). How Sherlock refrained from slapping the waste of space whenever he had to meet him, I do not know; it said wonders for my friend’s self-restraint. The matter had visibly irritated him however, and I had felt compelled to let him work his frustrations out on me most evenings.

All right, I did not need _that_ much compulsion! And the feral look I always got when he burst through the door – it would have made a lesser man shake with fear. I of course never did that.

Someone _is_ sniggering, damn him! Harrumph!

+~+~+

At dinner that evening Sherlock told me that his government case was (finally!) sorted, and that he could devote himself to 'far more important matters'. I would deny that a certain part of my anatomy sprang to attention when he said that, but it did, and I was glad I was seated at the table. Yet his smirk told me that he knew full well just what I was thinking, and the effect that he was having on me. Damnation!

I had managed to calm down (in both senses) an hour or so later, and was sat reading on the couch when he came out of his room and sat next tome.

Naked! Stark, staring naked! I let out a whimper.

“Tell me about your letter”, he said calmly. My eyes boggled.

“What?” I squeaked. “What letter?”

“The one with a Berwick postmark that was in the mail this morning”, he said, folding his legs up Indian-style, and focussing my eyes only further on matters southwards. I fought for those things – what were they? - oh yes. Words. I knew I could manage some of them. Possibly even into one of those sentence thingys.

“Just a letter from someone that I knew – know up there”, I said feebly.

He looked coolly at me, whilst casually rubbing his growing erection. I did not tremble. Much. And I held out for nearly twenty seconds before blabbering into speech.

“Doctor Winchesley – he was the one who treated my mother in her final illness – he has moved to Seahouses, on the coast”, I blustered. “He rented a place called Bernicia Cottage just outside the town, or rather half of the cottage. Three days ago, the occupant of the other half was found dead. Murdered!”

“And he wishes for us to come and investigate the matter?” Sherlock asked, stroking himself faster as he spoke and letting out a most unfair moan of his own. I tried to stop my heart from beating out of my chest at the glorious sight.

“Yeeeees!” I managed, in a voice at least an octave higher than usual.

“There”, he smiled. “That was not so difficult, was it, John? That should be the second most important matter for you to attend to this evening.”

“Second?” I was almost proud I could manage a words of two syllables, given that most of the blood flow to my upper brain had been triaged off to my lower one.

He stood up and walked blithely over to my door.

“Do I really have to tell you the first?” he smirked, slowly pushing the door open. Without using his hand! 

I was going to die!

+~+~+

The following day we – well, Sherlock and what was left of me - adjourned to King’s Cross Station for the “Special Scotch Express” (the train later famous as the “Flying Scotsman”), which would take us as far as Newcastle-upon-Tyne. There we would have to change to a slower local train as far as Chathill, the junction from whence the line to Seahouses was being built. The recent Races To The North had improved services between London and Scotland immensely, and I felt this not just in the fast pace with which we were whisked to the town of the Geordies, but the sharp contrast in the dilatory pace of our second, local train. I knew that this train, for Berwick, would continue to call at Belford, my old home village, and I wondered if there would be time or reason for me to call in there during the case.

It was surprisingly cold when we finally alighted at Chathill, bearing in mind it was Thursday the seventh of June and just two weeks before Midsummer’s Day. There was a bracing wind sweeping in from the North Sea, which made Sherlock's hair somehow even worse than usual. I remembered going to sit and stare out at that sea from Bamburgh when I was younger, and dream of faraway lands and the wonderful adventures I would have there when I grew up. Now of course I was a man, and I had put away such childish dreams.

I glanced at the man beside me, and smiled. There were, it could be said, some compensations to adulthood. There was no-one about on the exposed platform, so I took the opportunity to hug and kiss Sherlock, who looked surprised but pleased.

“Just thanking you for making my dreams come true”, I said, silently thinking that he would be quite right to think me being weird.

“Maybe later”, he grinned as he sauntered off. 

I resisted the urge to send a scowl heavenwards. How the blazes could I get an erection when I was this cold?

+~+~+

The drive to Seahouses and my fellow doctor's house was a pleasant one, and I could smell the salt in the air as we rolled into the little village. To Victorians, of course, the area was synonymous with the famously brave Grace Darling, who had risked her life to row out to rescue survivors from the wrecked “Forfarshire” back in 1838. That ship had been wrecked on the Farne Islands, which were just visible in the distance.

Our carriage took us to the Olde Ship Inn which, despite a tendency to overdo the nautical theme – I did not think that a lifebelt on the wall in my room was really necessary – was a warm and welcoming place. We spent a short time settling in before coming down to see Doctor Winchesley, whom I had telegraphed the evening before, and who had said that he would meet us at the hotel.

Thaddeus Winchesley was seventy-two at the time, a weathered old man who, I thought, looked very tired. Of course I remembered him in his early fifties, from when I had left Belford some twenty years ago.

Damnation, I had counted after all! And someone next to me was smiling for no good reason.

“I am thankful that you have come, John”, Doctor Winchesley smiled. “The whole sequence of events has been most trying, and I have the distinct feeling that there is more to what had happened than I have so far perceived. I hope that your clever friend can bring his wits to bear on the matter.”

“I shall certainly do my best”, Sherlock promised. “Let us start with the sequence of events as they have occurred, our mutual friend can write them down in his inimitable and almost illegible scrawl” (I glared at him for that!) “and we shall see what we shall see.”

Doctor Winchelsey sipped his beer and began.

“I moved here when I retired seven years ago, just after Maggie died”, he began. “As I told you, John, I had some problems finding a replacement for the village. Young Kennett was a complete flibbertigibbet if ever there was one, and as for Cameron – well, after Mr. Smithson and his daughters, he had to leave town rather quickly. Fortunately John Riccarton proved a good man, and with the money that I received from selling the practice to him, I purchased Number One, Bernicia Cottage.”

“The cottage is an old farm building converted into two attached cottages, and is quite isolated from the village”, he continued. “It is only a quarter of a mile, but the road to it twists and runs through a small wood, so it is very private. And the views are magnificent. I was very happy there – until three years ago.”

“You never said anything”, I pointed out.

“You had your own troubles then”, he reminded me. “It happened the February that you were somewhat pre-occupied with a certain Professor Moriarty, and in your last letter beforehand you sounded so sad that I did not wish to add to your worries.”

“What happened?” Sherlock asked, tactfully side-stepping my still painful memories of that terrible time. I was grateful for that.

“Peggy Henderson died – she lived in the other half of the cottage – and her widower John went to live with his daughter down in Amble. I considered buying their house and letting it out for income, but Quentin – Mr. Bystone, the estate agent – told me that he had already had an offer on it, some way above the asking price. I was disappointed, but I looked forward to seeing my new neighbour. Which, as it turned out, I did not.”

“Eh?” I said, as coherent as ever.

“Mr. Jacques Ballard turned out to be a French exile”, Doctor Winchelsey explained. “He left his native land late last year, and settled in this out of the way place again for reasons unknown. He clearly had enough money to support himself for a considerable time, as he was only about forty years of age, according to my cleaner Lily who saw him but the once. He had one manservant, a morose fellow called Alain. I believe that they had food and other supplies mostly sent up from the shop in the village, although I know, because George - the postman - told me, that he did receive a parcel from France a short while back.”

“When was that, exactly?” Sherlock asked.

“Two weeks ago”, the doctor replied. “As I said, the cottages are isolated so there was no cause for him to come down to the village, but Ben, who does some occasional gardening for me, did see him briefly the weekend before last, four days after the delivery.”

Sherlock thought for a while.

“Who discovered the body?” he asked eventually.

“He had a visitor on Tuesday of this week”, the doctor said. “A Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris Police. He arrived around lunch-time, which I thought odd; I presumed that he must have stayed somewhere nearby, then walked or ridden in, as there is no train that would have served. I was out in my garden – it was a fine day for once, and I was reading – when I saw him come up the path.”

“I think that I need physical descriptions of these people, please”, Sherlock cut in. 

“Mr. Ballard was around forty years of age, short and rotund almost to the point of being spherical, dark hair balding rapidly and, although I should probably not speak ill of the dead, he had a somewhat pinched face. His servant, Alain, was a bit younger, though not much, and in very good physical condition. He had thinning fair hair, and I do not think that I ever saw either man smile. Their visitor, Monsieur Dubuque, was around thirty years of age, with a lion's mane of fair hair. I only saw him briefly as he was going up the path; I do not know if he saw me as I was working on a flower-bed at the time, and the fence may have hidden me from view.”

“What happened next?” I asked.

“Monsieur Dubuque entered the house, and a few minutes later I heard a shout from inside. I hurried round – I think that it must have taken me less than a minute to get from my garden to their front door – and as it was open, I went straight in. I noted that the back door had been left wide open, but my attention was more drawn to the fact that Mr. Ballard was lying dead in the front room, and a quick examination suggested that he had been killed with a dagger or some similar instrument. I presumed, therefore, that Monsieur Dubuque had killed him and then fled, though of course I have no idea as to why.”

“The house was empty?” Sherlock asked.

“Alain, the manservant, had the day off, and had gone off to Berwick”, Doctor Winchesley explained. “That was the other odd thing, though. Constable Perkins took my statement the same day, but he came to me yesterday morning and told me that not only were they letting the manservant go – which I suppose was fair enough, given that he could not have done it – but they had also been told in no uncertain terms to drop the investigation.”

“And this Alain promptly disappeared, I bet!” I muttered. Doctor Winchelsey nodded.

“He came back to the cottage on Tuesday evening, and of course was not allowed in because it was a crime scene”, he said. “Mary at your hotel agreed to put him up for a few nights until everything was sorted, but he went out for a walk on Wednesday morning and did not come back. The police checked all along the beaches, but found nothing.”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together and thought for a few moments.

“What was the last time that anyone saw Mr. Ballard prior to Tuesday?” he asked at last. 

“That would have been when Ben saw him, over a week ago”, the doctor answered. “Of course, I could hear them both through the wall, but I did not see them as such. The servant Alain did what little gardening needed doing; his master never left the house, as far as I know.”

“Thank you for inviting us into this case, Doctor Winchelsey”, Sherlock said gravely. “I rather suspect that there is more to it than meets the eye. We shall have to make one or two inquiries in the area, but I believe that we may be able to achieve at least a limited resolution of matters.”

+~+~+

I knew somehow that this case worried my friend, for reasons he had not yet divulged. I was content to wait until he was ready to unburden himself onto me. We went for a walk along the harbour before turning in for the night, and I smiled as his hair somehow contrived to get even more of a mess in the strong wind blowing in from the German Ocean.

“We shall had to undertake some travel by horse and cart tomorrow”, he said quietly, his words almost being blown away in the wind. “We may even go as far as your old home town, John.”

My friend was all too well aware that my memories of Belford were mostly negative ones. The deaths of both my parents, especially that of my mother, had made selling up and leaving the place for a new life in London relatively easy. I knew, because Sir Charles had been kind enough to tell me, that my old family house had been sold to a businessman who worked in Newcastle but wished to raise his family in the country, and that he had significantly 'improved' the place.

Perhaps I was ready to face my past. Especially now I was more certain about my future. It lay with the man beside me, whom I would never let go for a third time.

+~+~+

The following day, Sherlock went out early to send a telegram from the post office. He then hired a cart for us and drove inland. We seemed to be heading back to Chathill again, but we turned off and instead went to Newham, the next station up the line towards Berwick. Sherlock had a brief conversation with the stationmaster there, but it seemed to have yielded nothing, and we continued on over the railway line and made our way to the station after that, Lucker. Again, Sherlock's efforts seemed to meet with failure, and we headed west to pick up the Great North Road. 

A few miles on, and we reached a familiar road junction. Belford village lay some little way ahead of us, but we took the right turn and headed down to the station, where Sherlock had his third conversation of the day. I walked the short distance from the station to my old home.

Sir Charles had understated the 'improvements' to the old place, but I had to admit, it certainly looked a lot better than when Sammy and I had lived there. Everything looked well cared for, and a visibly pregnant lady in her late thirties was sat in the garden, reading but at the same time keeping an eye on two of her charges, who were seemingly trying to push each other out of the apple-tree. As I watched, her husband (I hoped!) came out and kissed her, then went over to play with their sons.

I sighed. The past was, I supposed, another country. But I was glad that the old place had found good people to look after it. My future lay elsewhere, with the man that I loved more than life itself.

+~+~+

I returned to the station to find Sherlock waiting for me, and from the smile on his face, I knew that this time he had been successful. Typically, he remembered that I might have wished to call on the Reverend Potter at the vicarage, and we travelled into the village, where we were fortunate enough to catch him. And my friend's thoughtfulness brought an unexpected bonus when the vicar was able to add to our knowledge of the case.

“Of course I read about the murder”, he told us. “Indeed, I had to inform the local constabulary that the murderer may well have been here. Fortunately they were able to assure me that I was mistaken.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked.

“The morning that it happened, there was a foreigner who came to the church to pray”, the vicar said, polishing his round glasses as he spoke. “A middle-aged gentleman; he had a lion's mane of fair hair. All he said to me was 'Reverend', but I thought that I detected a French accent. However, Constable Plod visited me and said that Monsieur Dubuque, who matched that description, had travelled up from Newcastle, so would hardly have gone past several stations and then had a longer ride to his destination. It was probably just a coincidence.”

(Yes, Belford's village policeman at the time was indeed Constable Richard Plod, whom even the vicar had gone so far as to describe as 'a spineless, useless, complete lummocks'. A most charitable over-estimation of his abilities, I might add).

“I dislike coincidences”, Sherlock said crisply. “They happen far less than people suppose.”

“But how could a man be in two places at once?” the vicar objected.

“Many things are possible”, Sherlock said. “I rather fear that this will prove to be one of the cases that my medical friend cannot write up in the foreseeable future, but I hope to have it solved very shortly.”

I stared at him in astonishment. How?

+~+~+

I have mentioned before that Sherlock's brother Bacchus was not always as helpful as he expected my friend to be. However, this time the information Sherlock had requested was waiting for us back at the hotel. Sherlock read it and smiled.

We should go and see Doctor Winchelsey after dinner”, he said. “I am sure that he would like to know who actually murdered the man next door.”

“He is not the only one!” I said, pouting.

“You know what happens when you pout, John”, he growled. 

My trousers suddenly became very tight. He smirked at me, then ambled off to sort out dinner, whilst I fought for composure.

As usual, I lost.

+~+~+

“I have warned the doctor that he will be unable to write up this particular case, at least for now”, Sherlock began as we sat with Doctor Winchesley in his garden. It was a fine June evening, though the wind was still contriving to make an even bigger mess of Sherlock's hair. “And with such a matter of international importance, one must take care not to trample on diplomatic sensibilities.”

We both stared at him in surprise.

“International importance?” the doctor asked.

“Indeed”, Sherlock said. “I presume that you have read of the disgraceful Dreyfus Affair in France?”

We both nodded. Although it is little spoken of today, the Dreyfus Affair was one of those 'slow burn' scandals, which had begun late the previous year. It had arisen when Captain Alfred Dreyfus, an army officer of both Alsatian (i.e. the province recently lost to Germany) and Jewish descent, had been accused of treason. Bearing in mind the chronic instability of the Second Republic, those in power were always looking for some bone of distraction to throw to the common people, and sending a member of an unpopular minor religion to a remote island off Africa for betraying his country had presumably seemed like a good idea. Yet even then, barely six months into what would eventually turn into a twelve-year scandal and threaten to tear France apart, there were warning signs that what had seemed a clear-cut conviction had been anything but. The man would eventually be exonerated; he served with distinction in the Great War and died last year (1935).

“It is my belief”, Sherlock said, “that Mr. Jacques Ballard was in possession of certain evidence which threw further doubt on the conviction of Captain Dreyfus. I do not know what that evidence was, but clearly the man feared for his life. Why else would he not only abandon his homeland, but come to this wild spot miles from anywhere in England? And somewhere with coastal access, so further flight by sea could be effected if necessary?”

“Inevitably, it does become necessary. Every government of any size has its Bacchuses, people who will do dirty work 'for the good of the country', up to and including assassinating enemies of the state. My brother confirmed my suspicions that one such person, travelling under the name 'Monsieur Dubuque of the Paris Police', had left France on Sunday, destination England.”

“Sunday?” the doctor asked, surprised.

“Sunday”, Sherlock confirmed. “Monsieur Dubuque, as we shall have to continue to call him since we do not know his real name, arrives in London that same evening, and is able to secure a berth on the night sleeper - first-class at the French government's expense, no doubt – to Newcastle. Arriving there on Monday morning, he immediately charters a boat, thinking to surprise his target by arriving that way.”

“However, Mr. Ballard and his manservant have not gone to all this trouble without taking certain precautions. I would wager that he had, and still has, his own supporters in the French government, who doubtless alerted him to the approaching danger. The two men in Bernicia Cottage have made certain preparations, and are ready for the attack.”

“Monsieur Dubuque endures what is hopefully a choppy and very unpleasant journey up the Northumberland coast, and is deposited on a beach near to his destination. It is a short walk to the isolated cottage, and he probably waits some time so that he can enter unnoticed.”

“On Monday?” Doctor Winchelsey asked, clearly confused. “But I saw him go in on Tuesday.”

“Actually you did not”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Monsieur Dubuque is aware that you live in the adjoining cottage, and waits until he can approach without being detected. He enters Mr. Ballard's cottage late on Monday, and is immediately set upon and chloroformed by the two men who were waiting for him. He was then kept unconscious all night.”

“From the physical descriptions that you gave me, doctor, I would wager that it was the manservant Alain who played the part of Monsieur Dubuque for the next twenty-four hours. This was because it had to be established that the man did not reach the cottage until Tuesday, for reasons that will shortly become clear. Alain most probably goes to either Newham or Lucker, covertly joins a local train, and travels as far as Belford, where the stationmaster did remember him as someone who evaded passing through the ticker-barrier. He spends a night in one of the hostelries there as 'Monsieur Dubuque'. I am sure that the police have already established which one.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“Because of their otherwise incomprehensible disinterest about a murder committed on English soil”, Sherlock said. “As we have seen on more than one previous occasion, the police only drop a case when pressured by someone important, most often in government. I suspect that for once, it was not my lounge-lizard of a brother, because otherwise he might not have been so helpful for once. To continue, on Tuesday morning Alain continues as Monsieur Dubuque and goes to the church to pray, making sure that he is seen by the vicar. He then changes briefly back to himself, goes to the railway station and purchases a return ticket to Berwick, as he has his own alibi to establish. There is, perhaps, the danger that questions might be asked as to why he did not leave from either of the stations nearer to Seahouses, but he and his confederate are gambling - correctly - that the matter will not be pursued.”

“He is now pressed for time. I cannot be sure of what he did next, but I note from the timetable that the Berwick train leaves Belford only minutes after the Newcastle one. I think that he was seen boarding the Newcastle train, then slipped out unnoticed and contrived to get himself onto the Newcastle train, which would take him back in the direction of the cottage. He then gets out at either Newham or Lucker, where he doubtless has a horse ready, and rides quickly back to the cottage. He makes sure that you, doctor, see him walk up the path to what is actually his cottage.”

“His master is ready inside, and seeing his ally approach, finally gives his would-be assassin his quietus. Mr. Ballard leaves quickly by the back door, and after yelling in shock, his manservant follows him, leaving a dead body for you. Doctor Winchelsey, to find.”

There was a stunned silence.

“They played me for a fool”, Doctor Winchelsey said dully.

“But you had no way of knowing”, Sherlock said comfortingly. “So to finish. Master and servant leave, most likely by boat, and sail up the coast. The railway line sticks close by for much of the way to Berwick, so it is easy to drop the servant off not far from a station – most likely Beal - so that he can return home and 'discover' the crime after his nice day out. Mr. Ballard then sails back to near Seahouses, knowing that Alain will be able to rejoin him the following morning. In the cottage, the fake 'Mr. Ballard' is seemingly dead, and his killer has doubtless fled back to France. Her Majesty's Government quickly sees this for the explosive mess that it has the potential to be, namely that an agent of a foreign country has managed to get into England, murder someone in broad daylight, and then get out again. The message is quickly passed down to drop the case; Great Britain does not need cause for still further tensions with our possible ally right now.”

“Except that it was the French agent who was murdered”, I muttered, still shocked at all this. “How could they hope to get away with it?”

“They rather did”, Sherlock pointed out. “And when the French government eventually realizes that one of their agents has been killed whilst trying to murder someone on foreign soil – well, they are hardly going to be running to the newspapers, are they?”

+~+~+

I was still feeling shocked when we left Seahouses the following day, and our carriage rolled through the leafy Northumberland lanes back to Chathill Station. I was also feeling a little down because my hopes of seeing Sammy before we returned to London had been scuppered by a reply to the telegram I had sent yesterday, which told me that he, Jessica and the children were off to Edinburgh for a week's holiday, starting today. I walked out onto the cold up platform and sighed heavily.

“I know something that will make you feel better, John.”

I would like to point out that the noise I emitted then was a quite manly exclamation. Using a broad definition of the term 'manly' (all right, and the term 'exclamation'!). And now I was going to forever associate this lonely platform with Sherlock-incited erections, damnation!

“How?” I muttered, moving instinctively closer to the human heater.

He took my hand, and I felt a railway ticket being pushed into it. Looking down, I saw that Sherlock had purchased a first-class one for me. Except....

“Your brother and sister-in-law are waiting for you to join them”, he said softly, “and I took the liberty of arranging cover at the surgery for your time away.”

It was the bitter wind off the sea that was making my eyes water. Mostly. Even if we had not been the only people on the platform, I would still have taken him in my arms and kissed him. I held him close, and only the sound of the distant approaching train made me let go and hurry to cross to the northbound platform.

“And John?” he called after me. I turned, only a few yards away from him.

“Yes?”

“Remember, when you return to London – we shall have seven days of sex to catch up on!”

It was damnably hard to scuttle across the tracks with a full-on erection, and the bastard knew that full well. God, I loved him so much!

+~+~+

Next time, Sherlock and I meet a familiar face in the unlikely setting of Northumberland's neighbour across the Pennines, the beautiful county of Westmorland. And he bloody well abandons me!

**Author's Note:**

> To my overseas readers, Bernicia was the name of the ancient Anglo-Saxon kingdom that covered Northumberland, the county in which I was born, and the neighbouring county of Durham. It later merged with Deira (Yorkshire) to form Northumbria.


End file.
